His Hair
by PrincessLesse
Summary: A black so deep, that whenever his hair reflects light, it looks silver. That is when I feel so compelled to just run my fingers through his hair. Oh, how I just want to grab his face, and hold him still why I muse his hair even more than it already is."


**His Hair**

This story is dedicated to Harry, because he doesn't get much credit for being as debonair as he really is.

Standard Disclaimers apply; no copyright infringement is intended. The characters of Harry Potter and associated merchandise belong to J.K. Rowling and affiliates. I am making no money off this what so ever.

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Whenever I stare at his hair, it strikes me as wonderful. I'm not truly sure I understand why it's wonderful, other than the fact that it's just so... unique. Yes, that's the word, unique. It's unique in its own way.

His hair really is quite gorgeous. There's nothing to say about it. It's just so wonderfully... wonderful. Oh yes, my gift for words has fled me. It's just so exquisite. I suppose I should tell you about his hair. It's so scruffy that it has this endearing quality that captures my heart in a tight squeeze. The hair itself has texture that seems to meld with his features, fitting him perfectly. Yes, it's just such a wonderful thing.

His hair, it seems to fly of its own accord. It sways gently when he moves, clumps of it sticking out at odd ends. I am at a loss for words when he gets frustrated. Why? You wonder. It's because whenever he gets frustrated, he gets this distressed, guarded look on his face, and then he runs his hands through his hair. When he does this, he pulls the top back, and his bangs are falling erratically across his forehead, and he's mused those unkempt tresses. Yes, that beautiful head of hair.

I suppose one might wonder why I'm spending so much time obsessing over his hair. I can't explain it, it's one of his best qualities, and even if some say that it is not. I digress, as it is one of the most endearing qualities a boy can have. Yes, his unkempt hair falls across his forehead, and it sticks up erratically in this direction and that. Yet, his hair looks so wonderfully soft. I just want to touch it.

Oh, his hair is so lovely. So, so lovely for the eyes, pleasing even. I've smelled his hair, his lovely hair. It smelled of his shampoo. He doesn't know that I smelled his hair, but we were just so close, I couldn't help it. Oh, how fantastic it smelled. It smelled of mint and a hint of tea. I haven't the faintest clue why, but it had that bitter smell of tea. I was entranced by this mixture of tea and mint so much that I inhaled deeply and let the air of him filter throughout my body. What a lovely, lovely feeling it was.

I've not yet touched it. I wouldn't dare.

Oh, his exquisite hair is so unkempt that he tries vainly to flatten it. Doesn't he know that I fancy it that way? I'm positive I'm not the only one. Oh! If only you could see it whenever he finishes his Quidditch practices. It's so tussled and flyaway that I can't help but melt on the inside. His hair, his lovely hair would be on ends, tousled this way and that, and yet it still fell about in a peaceful, orderly way. Oh, it was just so wonderful.

How I feel like such a giggling schoolgirl. I wish (Oh how I wish!) that one could appreciate his hair as I do. It's so perfect for him, framing his face and also being a creature of its own.

The colour of his hair is unmatched by all. It is such a lovely shade of black. It's deep, encompassing all colours that bounce off his delicate tresses. Oh yes, I'm in love with his hair. It's just so wonderfully incredible. It's such a deep black that it accentuates his sharp features, angling his cheekbones, and making his gorgeous eyes more prominent. Oh, how I love his features. I suppose that I am a vain girl, but how could one not be when encountered with such lovely features. Oh, how I am to be thrown to the lions to be ravaged upon! That's just how I feel; I can't eloquently convey my thoughts in words. It brings me to a stuttering halt whenever I try to get my point across. How I feel so frustrated, yet even more so when he doesn't seem to understand! He just doesn't understand how I feel whenever I sigh softly, and I stare out the window. Doesn't he know that all I can think of is his hair? How I feel like such a fool, my thoughts only directed to one feature of a body. How vain am I?

I know that he just doesn't get it, that whenever he tries to flatten it; he's only trying to impress the wrong person. His hair, in such disarray, is not "ugly" as some have put it. Oh, how I feel so horrible when he says that he's self-conscious about his hair. I only wish to give him a slap on the wrist, and to tell him that he will be pleasing more people than he could imagine. Oh, if only he knew.

A black so deep, that whenever his hair reflects light, it looks silver. That is when I feel so compelled to just run my fingers through his hair. Oh, how I just want to grab his face, and hold him still why I muse his hair even more than it already is. It's just such a fetish! Yes, that's exactly what it is—a fetish with his hair. I adore it to no ends; I feel as if the only thing that will keep me sane is if I can just pet his hair, smiling while I stare into his lovely eyes.

I feel so obtuse, speaking about nothing but his hair. Why, I'm positive that some would consider this obsessive. Yet, there's nothing that I can say or do except talk about his hair. It is such lovely, lovely hair.

At times, I wonder if I should quit thinking about trivial things, and get back to thinking about what would better me. Yet, I can't. I couldn't if I was a million miles away. I'd still be thinking about how disheveled his hair would be whenever he's finished running; when he's just gotten out of the shower. Oh, a lovely thought. Whenever he's just left the shower, beads of water dripping down each tendril, falling onto his bare shoulders. Yes, his shoulders are bare because he has not yet put on a shirt. His hair glistens, reflecting the light from which the candles are casting, and he's sweeping his hair away from his eyes.

What a sight. It's worth swallowing fire. Not that I had to do that, but it's worth it. It's just... it's just his hair that is so lovely. Oh yes, I may not be very eloquent, but his hair is worth pondering. Perhaps I will be brave enough to touch it one of these days, but he isn't to know that I'm pondering these thoughts. Oh no. His hair is a treasure, in its deepest of blacks and its sporadic placement atop his head. It is most certainly a treasure, or my name isn't Hermione Granger.


End file.
